Stories Have Endings, Fantasies Fade
by tearsofamiko
Summary: She buries her face in her arms, trying to shut out the heartbreak she can already see coming. -Sequel to The Best There's Ever Been-


Title: Stories Have Endings, Fantasies Fade

Author: Tearsofamiko

Fandom: Star Trek XI

Character(s): Jocelyn McCoy / Leonard McCoy, Joanna McCoy, Deborah McCoy, eventual Jocelyn / Clay Treadway

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I own nothing about _Star Trek (2009)_, its plotlines, or characters, including any recognizable dialogue.

Summary: She buries her face in her arms, trying to shut out the heartbreak she can already see coming.

A/N: Hee, I worked on this backward, which actually amuses me to no end.

**WARNING**: Deals with the loss of a child, the death of a parent, and divorce.

.:::.

The beat of Len's heart is a steady, reassuring rhythm in her ear as she lies across his chest, bare skin warm against hers. She closes her eyes and savors the sound, traces random patterns across his stomach while he absently strokes a hand through her hair. She's mostly relaxed, sated and almost-content against his side, though some new instinct stays on constant alert for any sound from Joanna. Sighing softly, she turns and presses a kiss to his skin, right over his heart, snuggling back in as his arm tightens around her.

Silence fills the house, broken only by the hum of the ceiling fan overhead and the occasional snuffle over the speaker from Joanna's room. At eight months, she's just started sleeping through the night, with only the occasional interruption, something Jocelyn's nerves truly appreciate. She knows it's late without even checking the time, feeling the hour in the fatigue settled deep in her bones and, if the slow, even rate at which Len's chest rises and falls is any indication, they're both on the very brink of sleep. Sighing, she closes her eyes, threading her fingers in her husband's.

"Do you ever think about him?" she asks quietly, her voice a bare whisper in the silence of their room. Len's fingers tighten on hers and his entire body goes very still. "He'd be two, today." She feels tears start to gather behind her eyelids and swallows against the ache in her throat.

The image comes unbidden, though it isn't unfamiliar. A sturdy toddler with silken strands of dark brown hair and her bright blue eyes, David Michael McCoy scampers through her mind, mischievous and laughing, energetic and loving. She's always pictured him like this, a perfect amalgamation of her spirit and Leonard's attitude, all wrapped in an adorable, giggling, slightly roly-poly package.

"Yeah," Len's voice is hoarse, choked with old grief, "every Goddamn day." She feels a harsh sigh shudder through his chest under her cheek and it's that – that soundless show of emotion – that allows her to let go, tears slipping silently from her eyes to dampen his skin.

A muted snuffle comes through the baby speaker, drawing her attention off her grief. She wants desperately to go in and comfort herself by holding Joanna, cradling her in her arms, but it's after midnight by several hours and if she wakes Jo now, there'll be no sleep tonight. Instead she flattens her hand over his sternum and murmurs a command for the lights, wrapping herself in the warm darkness of their room, listening for Joanna over the speaker and focusing on the soothing rhythm of Len's heartbeat in her ear.

Neither one sleeps very much that night.

.:::.

Three years pass in blissful domesticity. Len's home each night for dinner, helping her feed Joanna and clean the kitchen, as they discuss his day at work and the latest gossip around the town. They share bathtime duties – Len reveling in tsunamis and splashy water games while Jocelyn controls the overflow and makes sure everything's clean in the end, or Jocelyn indulging in water ballets while Len sits on the toilet and laughs, a towel dangling uselessly from his hands. Baby giggles and stampeding feet signal the nightly transition from bathtime to bedtime, culminating in restful silence broken by the gentle cadence of Len's voice reading bedtime stories until Joanna's sound asleep in his arms.

She wonders, sometimes, at the gentle perfection of her life. Four years ago she'd have sworn her marriage was at an end, another statistic in the growing tradition of mostly-casual relationships. Now, though, she's the happy mother of a rambunctious three-year-old and the content wife of a simple Southern doctor. It's not the life she dreamed of when she was a little girl, but she thinks it may be as close to perfect as anyone could ask. Of course, there is the occasional fight with Len, mostly over parenting techniques or finances, but who doesn't fight with their spouse? And there's the one night a year she allows herself to cry for the child they should have had, the boy-child she'd have given just about anything to save. But, overall, everything's practically perfect in every way.

Which is when everything starts to go wrong.

.:::.

She notices it first at Jo's fifth birthday party, one of the few times during the year they get to spend any amount of time with Len's dad. It's like one of those puzzles, where you have to find the difference between the two images: what's missing from picture B that is in picture A? It takes two days of games and laughter and running after a sugar-hyped Jo for her to see it and the changes spread a chill through her.

David McCoy has always been larger than life. Animated and opinionated, she's never _not_ been able to see where Len's attitude and bedside manner come from. David is an archetypical grandfather, loud and loving and willing to play any game Jo brings to him. But this year, he couldn't play hide-and-seek as long, had difficulties breathing through the game of tag Jo wanted to play with her parents and grandparent, dozed off on the couch while she fixed supper. She wonders about it to herself, trusting her father-in-law and her husband, and consoles herself with the reminder that, while still young, forty-five is not twenty-five, and with his busy schedule at the hospital, David's allowed to be tired.

She still worries, though, especially when she sees the concern in Len's eyes. He doesn't say anything during Jo's birthday weekend, but he works a little bit later the following week, and she knows her husband well enough to realize that he's researching possible illnesses that might be affecting his father.

If his scowl is a little more pronounced than usual and his eyes are distant across the dinner table, she makes no comment, just lets him be.

.:::.

Six months later, she gets a call from David while Len's at work. It's just past noon and Joanna's down for her nap, so Jocelyn feels no qualms about answering. She settles into the chair by the vidscreen, cues up the image, and feels her heart drop into her toes.

She's never imagined that six months could have such an effect on _anybody_, let alone her stubborn, indomitable father-in-law. He's haggard, skin pale and waxy, and obviously weak, warm brown eyes dim as he smiles sadly at her through the vidscreen. A hand flutters to her mouth and tears rise to her eyes, but the words she wants to say, the questions she wants to ask are caught in her throat, choking her. Finally, as a tear tracks down her cheek, David breaks the silence, voice gravelly and filled with regret.

"I think it's about time y'all come home for a while," he says. He watches her for a second. "Have Leonard give me a call tonight, willya?" She nods, still unable to speak, and he cuts the connection with one last smile.

She buries her face in her arms, trying to shut out the heartbreak she can already see coming.

.:::.

Len's eyes have never been quite so flat, she thinks, watching as he calls around to the hospital and various colleagues, shuffling through a stack of PADDs on the desk in their room while she folds clothes and packs them into a pair of suitcases. There's a kind of frantic desperation in his actions, something almost hopeless about the set of his mouth, and it scares her, makes her realize that, for all of his experience and expertise, Len has no idea what's eating away at his father and no clue how to treat it.

"Jo-baby, y'got your toys?" she calls as she heads down the hall to her little girl's room.

The usual chaos greets her as she steps through the doorway. A small knapsack lies open on the twin bed, a toy doctor kit and a pair of pastel-colored PADDs spilling out, while the well-loved Mr. Bandaid rests on the pillow, his white lab coat dingy and in need of washing. Peering around the room, she spies Joanna tucked in the corner, pink princess nightgown pulled over her knees as she flips through the old, leather-bound book of fairy tales, stopping occasionally to study a picture.

"Ready to go tomorrow, sweetheart?" Jocelyn asks, smiling softly as she leans against the doorjamb. Joanna nods without looking up, baby-fine auburn hair – darker than Jocelyn's own – falling around her face.

"Mommy, is Daddy mad?" she mumbles into her knees, blinking up through her bangs. A frown automatically touches Jocelyn's face, despite her surprise at the question – sometimes she forgets how perceptive her daughter is, how much her father's child she is in that respect.

"No, baby. Daddy's not mad. He's just," she stops, trying to figure out how much to tell Joanna, how much will reassure her without scaring her, when even Jocelyn will admit to being scared for her father-in-law. "Daddy's just worried 'cause Grandaddy's sick."

"But Daddy'll make 'im better, right, Mommy?"

Jocelyn thinks about how sick David has gotten in just a few months, how quickly he's deteriorating, about the strange note of finality she'd heard in his vid-call. Taking a deep breath, she kneels in the floor next to her daughter, wraps an arm around her thin shoulders and hugs her tight to her side.

"He's sure gonna try, baby," she promises, closing her eyes against tears when she sees Len pass Jo's bedroom door, shoulders slumped under an impossible weight.

.:::.

Pyrrhoneuritis.

The word itself is terrifying, its syllables rolling harshly off her tongue, stinging her throat as she repeats it dumbly, staring blankly out the bedroom window. They're at David's house, firmly seated on McCoy lands and decades of history in every breath she breathes in the old house. Jo's been staying with Deborah, her great-grandmother, safely away from the looming specter of her grandfather's illness, an illness slowly running Len more and more ragged as he tries to combat it. At this point, though, finding a diagnosis does nothing to aid that battle – pyrrhoneuritis has no cure.

She hears voices down the hall, the low rumbling back and forth between Len and his dad as they discuss options, treatments, anything to make any sort of difference. It's been days since she's truly talked to her husband, though he hasn't been any further away than the hospital two towns over. Whenever he's not in his father's room, he's there, studying and researching and testing as he tries to do what no one else has done – cure the incurable. He's got old friends and colleagues helping him, picking up the slack on David's bad days and lending expertise and experiences. She's grateful to them, though she hasn't met them. Anything to ease the harried, half-insane light in Len's eyes.

She sleeps by herself in Len's childhood bed while he passes out, exhausted, in the chair in his father's room.

.:::.

A week after the funeral, their townhouse goes on the market and they move into David's farmhouse, part of the lands and property he willed to his son. Joanna's a little confused, a little worried about the move, but Jocelyn makes it a game. Together they find ways to fit their belongings in among the antique furniture already in the house, replacing pieces only when entirely necessary. Len's old room becomes Joanna's, the science posters pulled down in favor of butterflies and teddy bears, sweet little changes that still fit in with the green paint on the walls. Carefully, so carefully, Jocelyn manages to shift the house's ownership from David to them, without harming the core feeling of 'home'.

Four weeks after the funeral, Joanna stays the night at Deborah's house, leaving the old farmhouse feeling desolate as it creaks and groans to itself. Jocelyn spends the evening on the couch, TV turned on low and a mug of tea cooling in her hands. Leonard spends it in his father's study, just the same as he has every night for the past four weeks, door tightly shut and no light peeking from under it. She tries to understand how much he's hurting, tries to keep in mind that it's only been a month since this David died, that she's had seven years to come to terms with losing her own David.

It doesn't work out very well - she cries herself to sleep, curled in a ball in the middle of their queen-size bed.

An unknown amount of time later, she startles awake, feeling the mattress dip under the weight of another body. Moonlight pours across the bedroom floor as Len settles into his side of the bed, shuddering occasionally under the blankets. She lays there, stiff as a board, trying to figure out how to deal with this unusual turn of event until she realizes he's not shivering due to a chill. With a small, broken sound, she pulls him into her arms, cradling his head against her chest as he sobs against her.

"I _miss_ him," is moaned into her t-shirt and she clutches him closer, carding her fingers through his hair, her own tears sliding silently down her cheeks.

"I know, baby. I know."

.:::.

"Mommy, Mommy, message popped up on the screen! Some'un wants t'talk to Daddy!" Joanna calls, running into the kitchen from the family room, where Jocelyn had set her up with a learning game on the computer console. Jocelyn drops her whisk into the cake batter she's stirring and follows her daughter back to the computer. She quickly closes out Jo's program when she sees the message's 'urgent' and 'hospital' tags, a sense of foreboding gathering in the pit of her stomach. Sending Jo off to her room to play, Jocelyn takes a breath and knocks on the study door.

"Len? Message for you," she calls through the sturdy wood. There's a beat of silence, then he responds, sounding as tired as she feels, the heavy weight of raw grief still lingering even after last night's breakdown.

"Who's it from?"

"The hospital," she replies and jumps when the door is slung open.

His eyes are wild, half-terrified, half-resigned, face pale and covered in stubble. She can faintly smell bourbon under the haze of sadness wafting out of the room, but he seems sober enough. She trails after him as he heads to the living room, hovering by the couch as he settles heavily in the desk chair and calls up the message. It's a vid-call, previously recorded, the man in the picture composed despite the undercurrent of excitement tugging at his words.

"Dr. McCoy, you asked us to keep you updated..." she hears and the look Len throws in her direction tells her it's a private message, one she's not qualified to hear. Shrugging, figuring it's just shop-talk and maybe it'll be good for him to get interested in something else, take his mind off his dad, she heads back to the kitchen to finish her cake.

.:::.

He returns to the study sometime between when she finishes the batter and when she fetches Jo to lick the bowl.

He doesn't emerge for the rest of the evening and, though she wonders about his absence the next morning at breakfast, she lets him stay there, thinking he just needs a little more space, a little more time to ponder whatever medical quandary his colleague brought him.

He doesn't come out for the next two months, except in the middle of the night, when neither she nor Joanna are awake to see.

.:::.

"Len?" she asks, stepping carefully into the room. It's dark, the curtains drawn and lights extinguished, and she's unfamiliar with the room, doesn't want to trip over anything. "Len? Are you awake?"

"What do you want, Jocelyn?"

She hadn't quite made up her mind, not yet, not even after the way the past two months have gone. But that harsh question, asked in a wrecked, barely recognizable version of Len's voice steels her resolve, makes her remember that it's not just her she has to worry about. Even if he's hurting, she can't allow him to be like this around Joanna. Not anymore, at least.

"Len, we need to talk." She peers through the gloom, then gives up, calling out a command for the lights, fifty percent 'cause she does have a little compassion. Finally able to see clearly, she crosses the room and pulls out the desk chair, settling herself directly in Len's line of sight. "I can't do this anymore, Len."

"Can't do what, Jocelyn?" he asks tiredly, scrubbing his face, the sound of his hands against his stubble filling the tense silence of the room.

"It's been three months, Len. Three months since he died and I understand how much it hurts," God, did she ever – she hadn't been close to the man, but she'd been miserable when her own father died, "but you can't keep doing this. Joanna needs her father. She's confused, she's grieving, and she needs to know that she still has you here, Len. This is the first death she's had to deal with; she needs both of her parents right now. Hell, Len," she swallows harshly and reaches out to him, trying to catch his hands. He pulls them away, tucks them under his thighs, closes himself off and away from her and it hurts as much as a blow. "_I_ need you, Leonard. I loved him, too, y'know. He was so much to me, almost more than my own father, and I miss him, too. It's not just you, Len."

He laughs at that, a strange, broken sound that raises the hair on the back of her neck. His hazel eyes are wild, bleak as he slaps his thighs and laughs until tears roll down his cheeks and he chokes on the sound. Wiping his face with a shaking hand, he stares incredulously at her, eyes mocking and smile wry.

"'It's not just you.' The hell it isn't just me, Joss! It is just me! I'm the one with the medical degree, the one with the laboratory access and the research papers. I'm the one who spent hours bent over a microscope, running simulations and tests, trying this drug and that remedy, calling in all of my favors to try to do _something_ other than watch him waste away before my eyes! Goddammit, I did everything I could for him, because he asked me to! Because he called me home and made me his personal physician, despite every mandate in the book saying it's not a good idea." He falls silent for a second, rubbing his thumb over his mouth thoughtfully, though his eyes burn with painful emotions. "I was the one he begged to end it, the one weak enough to listen to him and push that button, up the meds until he just...fell asleep."

She gapes at the revelation. He'd told her David died in his sleep, had just gone between one breath and the next. It's what they'd told Joanna, that Grandaddy'd been too tired, that the angels took him to where Granmommy was so he could rest and feel better. He doesn't look at her, just drops his head between his shoulders to avoid her eyes.

"I'm the one that failed him, that gave in when I should have fought back," he says to his lap. "A month, Joss. That's it. That's what it took them to find the cure. If I'd've waited a month, he wouldn't have had to die." His head snaps up and he stares straight at her, face set in grim lines of defeat and self-reproach. "I killed my father. Don't fucking tell me it isn't just me." He collapses back into the study's couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling.

Arms wrapped around herself, tears pouring down her face, she leaves the room, dimming the lights and closing the door as she goes.

.:::.

She gives him another month but when Joanna's birthday comes and goes without him, she starts making plans. There's a house for sale across town, a tiny two-bedroom a block away from the elementary school, and she has just enough money left from her inheritance to make an offer on it. The realtor has a knowing glint in her eyes that makes Jocelyn flush and grit her teeth at the way gossip travels in small towns. But she beats out any other offers and the little house is hers. It's after she receives the call that she seeks out a lawyer, a sour burn in her stomach as she discusses the division of assets and who'll get custody of Joanna.

She doesn't want to take him for all he's worth. She just wants to get her daughter away from the miasma of grief surrounding the house. She just wants the chance to smile again, to laugh without feeling guilty about it, to have someone around willing to hold her when she needs it, to help her keep up with Joanna as she grows. It's not that she doesn't love Len anymore; she does love him, God help her, it seems like she's always loved him. But she needs more than this, needs more than an empty shell of a marriage, needs to be a partner in more than just name.

She cries the day the papers arrive at the farmhouse, fist stuffed in her mouth to keep Joanna from hearing her.

.:::.

Unable to face him, she slides the packet under the study door, leaning weakly against the wall for a few minutes before going to the kitchen to start dinner. She browns ground beef, adds spices and onions, tomatoes, mushrooms, and olives, sets the sauce to simmer on the stove as she pokes through the freezer to find the meatballs she knows are somewhere inside. She pulls them out of the very back, dumps them into the sauce, and fills another pot with water for noodles. When she turns to put the pot on the stove, Len is right there and she nearly drops the pot, gasping in surprise.

"God, Len! I swear, you-"

"What the hell are these?" he demands, waving the papers in her face. She stares at them for a second, then up into his eyes before moving past him to put the pot on to boil. His angry presence makes the kitchen feel tiny as she turns to lean against the counter, arms crossed protectively across her chest.

"I can't take this anymore, Len," she says, blinking back tears as he stares at her, face open and shocked, absolutely clueless. "I can't... be a single mother while you're still in the house. I can't keep lying to Joanna when she asks where you are, why you won't play with her. I won't make her stay here any longer, Len, she doesn't laugh anymore! Did you even notice? D'you know you missed her birthday, Len? That she didn't cry, just looked at me with _your_ eyes and accepted it, like it's okay that her father was in the same damn house and didn't even wish her a happy birthday? God, Len, when's the last time you told her you loved her?" She's not shouting, but her voice is impossibly intense and she has absolutely no idea how she's not crying.

"So, you're just giving up? Abandoning me and taking her away?" He is shouting, arms thrown wide, papers fluttering as he gestures. "I lose my parent and as a fun bonus, my wife and daughter? What, while you walk away with everything?"

"Oh, fuck you, Leonard! You left me first! Goddammit, you left me first!" That's when the dam breaks and her voice cracks. She spins to face the counter, unable to look at him as tears flood down her face. "You left me first," she whispers again, hands white-knuckled on the edge of the counter and eyes squeezed shut. The stove hisses and spits as the pot of water starts to boil over.

"I won't sign it," he says, McCoy mule-headedness thick in his voice. "We can fix this, Jocelyn. You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do, Leonard." She sighs, feeling so tired. "All the McCoy properties are yours. A third of what's in the bank accounts and you can see Joanna on the weekends. The money from the townhouse'll come to me, when the sale finally goes through. There's a little house in town and they've accepted my offer."

"The hell, Joss?"

"Jo's off for the next week; I wanna be moved in by the time school starts again. Clay Treadway, the house's previous owner, offered to let me borrow his truck." She turns to face him, rubbing tears off her cheeks. "I didn't want to do this, Len," she tells him gently, taking in the way his shoulders have slumped again, the way his eyes are dull and glassy as he stares at her. "But I can't do this anymore."

After he leaves the kitchen, as silently as he entered, she pulls the noodle pot off the stove and rinses it before refilling it, the tang of scorched metal burning her nose as _It doesn't mean I don't love you_ runs through her head like a mantra.

She doesn't fix spaghetti very often after that night.

.:::.

They settle quietly with the courts, Leonard bitter and silent after it's all said and done, blame in his eyes as he stares at her across the courtroom. Joanna doesn't understand, crying in wailing sobs as Jocelyn carries the last of their things out to Clay's truck. She clings to her daddy when it's time for them to leave, arms and legs wrapped with wiry strength around his chest as he hugs her one last time, murmuring gently in her ear. It breaks Jocelyn's heart to hear Joanna's gasping sobs from the truck as she turns to say goodbye to Len.

"I'm sorry, Len," she tells him, her voice strange around the lump in her throat. He glares balefully at her through red-rimmed eyes, arms crossed across his chest, closed off from her. She steps forward, braving his ire, his hurt and grief, to press a chaste kiss to his cheek, the first time they've touched in months. "I hope you figure it out soon," she wishes for him, a soft, sad smile on her face as she takes one last look at him and turns to get in the truck.

Joanna sits turned in the seat, watching her daddy out the back window, until they turn onto the main drag.

.:::.

She and Joanna settle into an uneasy rhythm of school, chores, and silence, punctuated by weekly visits to Deborah's house. Jocelyn knows her daughter blames her for the divorce, that she doesn't understand why they couldn't stay with Leonard anymore, and Jocelyn can't figure out the right words to explain it all to where she does understand. The weekly visits with Deborah help, the older woman a calming influence on both mother and daughter. Deborah never once makes Jocelyn feel as though she were the one who failed, though her dark eyes remain filled with unreadable emotions as weekend after weekend passes without Leonard once coming to visit with his daughter.

It's from Deborah that Jocelyn learns Leonard was offered his father's position at the local hospital and that Leonard turned it down without thinking twice and with a display of temper ensuring he wouldn't be welcome back into the facility for quite some time. Jocelyn and Deborah are angry both for and at Leonard after the new reaches them – while they both understand his reasons for turning down the offer, he'd burned a lot of bridges during his father's illness, willing to do just about anything to find any speck of information that might help. Jocelyn's horrified to realize that, after this latest blow-out, he has very few options left to him within Georgia's state lines.

"He's gonna go crazy without someone to help," Jocelyn says one night, seated at Deborah's kitchen table while her ex-grandmother-in-law washes the dinner dishes. Deborah shrugs, sighs, and drops the dishrag into the sink, bracing her hands on the counter.

"His daddy did the same thing, after Joan died – curled in on himself, lickin' his wounds. Didn't quite let things get as far as this, mind you, but Tom and I worried for quite a while." She pulls the plug out of the sink, wringing out the dishrag as the water drains. "Leonard'll get his feet back under him eventually. He's had a lot thrown at him in such a short time—" Jocelyn flinches, but Deborah doesn't look up from what she's doing "—he just needs a chance to breathe."

"Joanna misses her daddy," Jocelyn sighs, folding her arms on the table and resting her chin on them, absently watching Deborah move around the kitchen. "I never meant to take her away from him like this."

"He'll figure it out, honey. Leonard's always been plenty book-smart but a little slow when it comes to relationships, God bless his heart." Deborah pats Jocelyn on the shoulder before heading off to watch Joanna's new holo-vid with her.

.:::.

The week Leonard disappears from Georgia, Joanna breaks her arm on the playground, Jocelyn's 'car gives out, and Deborah is out of town visiting her sister. Jocelyn half-panics, leaving barely intelligible messages for Leonard at the farmhouse, hoping he'll come and save the day. When her calls go unanswered, she runs out to start the 'car and hears only a tired groan from the vehicle, not even an attempt to run. She refuses to cry as she sits behind the wheel, still fruitlessly hoping her ex-husband will appear at the end of the street.

Leonard never comes.

Clay Treadway does.

"Heard Miss Jo got hurt at school today," he greets her with, standing on her tiny front porch with his hands tucked into his pockets. "Are you okay?"

She stares at him for a second, speechless, butterflies fluttering in her stomach. It's been a while since anyone beside Deborah worried about Jocelyn and she's not quite sure how to accept it. Finally, she gives a tired laugh and pulls open the screen door, beckoning him into the house.

"I'm fine," she says, fudging the truth a little as she pours two glasses of iced tea. They sit at the kitchen table, sipping in silence for a few moments before Jocelyn finally breaks down. "I'm not fine," she buries her face in one hand, trying to hide the way her eyes fill with tears at the admission. "The school's osteo-regenerator was broken, the nurse wasn't able to completely mend the break and my 'car won't start. Deborah's out of town and Leonard won't answer the goddamn phone!" She sounds more than a little hysterical, even to her own ears, as she blurts it all out, unloading her stresses on the kind stranger sitting at her kitchen table. "His daughter's injured and he can't be bothered to come help me take care of her, let alone answer a damn vid-call!"

"Okay, okay, now," Clay murmurs, pulling her head down on his shoulder and rubbing her back. "It'll be okay, shh-shh. Come on, honey, now, don't cry." He keeps rubbing her back, cheek warm against her forehead, until she's cried out her worry and frustration. "There, see? It's not so bad."

She sniffles pathetically against his shoulder and laughs wetly, scrubbing her face with the heel of one hand as she pulls back. His eyes are honey-brown, she realizes as she glances up at him and gives him a weak smile. He smiles back, the edges of his eyes crinkling warmly.

"Better?" he asks and she nods. He smiles again and slaps his hands on his thighs, pulling himself to his feet and turning to offer her a hand. "Come on, I'll drive you to the hospital," he says matter-of-factly and she stares at him for a second before lunging forward and wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Thank you," she breathes against his ear. He briefly hugs her back, letting go as soon as she starts to pull away.

The smile on her face as she goes to find Joanna's coat makes her cheeks ache.

.:::.

Clay Treadway is a sweetheart and a blessing in disguise, she decides about a month later. True, Joanna's uncharacteristically reserved around him, withdrawing into a book or her head when he comes over to talk to Jocelyn, but having another adult around occasionally is a God-send.

Like with her 'car. A week after Joanna's broken arm, Jocelyn heard a sound from the driveway that distracted her from the college catalog she was perusing. Getting up to investigate, she was treated to the sight of long, jean-clad legs stretched out from under her 'car, booted feet leaning this way and that as Clay poked around the 'car's engine and computer system, finally discovering that the wiring from the ignition to the engine had short-circuited. By the time Joanna came home from school, he had the 'car purring happily to itself in the drive and was cheerfully refusing all of Jocelyn's attempts to pay him.

And he was over before the maintenance man when the water heater broke, replacing the old thermocoupling while she protested and promised someone was coming, it'd be okay for a few hours, he didn't need to worry. There was something odd in his eyes when she said that, something off about his voice when he assured her that it was no problem. Whatever it was still keeps her up nights, trying and failing to puzzle it out.

.:::.

Jo's birthday this year is a quite affair, just the two of them, plus Deborah and Clay. Jocelyn works hard to make it perfect for her little girl, buying the hover scooter Jo's been begging for, baking her favorite strawberry cake, and resolutely ignoring the cold shoulder Jo constantly directs Clay's way. Deborah brings a hand-knitted afghan, twisting blue and green threads combining to create a plush softness that settles like a cloud over Jo's bed.

The crowning point, though, is the unexpected message from Leonard that arrives just after dinner. Jocelyn watches as Deborah pulls Jo into her lap and presses 'play,' releasing the smooth tones of Leonard's rumbling voice, accent slightly less than it had been before he left. He tells her stories about the people he's met, silly little giggle-inducing tales about a bright-eyed boy named Jim and a green-skinned girl named Gaila. He describes, in detail, the way the Golden Gate Bridge looks at sunset, how sometimes the fog's so thick you can't see your hand in front of your face, how the Pacific Ocean looks different than the Atlantic. Jocelyn stands in the kitchen doorway, hungrily devouring the look of ecstatic joy on her daughter's face, so entranced by the sight that she doesn't register Clay's presence until he leans over to speak softly in her ear.

"I've never seen her so happy," he murmurs, warm breath brushing her cheek. She jumps at his nearness, surprised but not uncomfortable with it.

"It's the first we've heard from him in ages," she replies, smiling unconsciously as Joanna giggles at some part of Leonard's story. Jocelyn turns to see Clay's warm brown eyes on her face, mouth quirked as he watches her. They study each other for a moment, 'til Joanna's begging for the message to be replayed breaks through. Clay scrubs a hand through his sandy, red-blond hair and turns back into the kitchen, his back to her as he rinses plates and stacks them in the sink.

Jocelyn goes to her daughter and listens indulgently as Joanna chatters on about Leonard's message, finally insisting Jocelyn sit and watch it with them. Deborah tries to intercede for Jocelyn, tells Joanna that maybe her mama has other things she needs to be doing, but Joanna's all McCoy when she wants something, intractably stubborn until she gets her way. Leonard's face on the screen twists something in Jocelyn's chest, makes tears prick the back of her eyes as she sees how much happier he looks.

But it's nothing compared to the swoop she feels in her stomach when Clay passes the kitchen doorway, dishtowel slung over one shoulder and hands full of ice cream bowls.

.:::.

"...and they lived happily ever after." Gently, Jocelyn closes the book, running her finger over the worn gilt letters on the front. She's still surprised Joanna's willing to do this with her; their relationship has changed so much since the divorce, the request for a story each night is a shock and a revelation. "Ready for bed, babe?"

"Mommy, why'd Daddy go to San Francisco?"

Surprised, Jocelyn sets the book on the nightstand, buying herself time to figure out an answer. From the message Len sent, she's gathered that he found a job out there, far away from the heartbreak and failed hopes he left in Georgia. And Joanna's smart but she's still just seven years old; how can she tell her daughter that her daddy couldn't bear to stay here with them?

"Well, baby, y'know how Daddy's a doctor?" Joanna nods, earnest hazel eyes staring up at Jocelyn from the pillow. "Well, when Grandaddy got sick, 'member how you asked me if Daddy would make him better? He tried, baby, he really did, but Grandaddy was too tired and Daddy couldn't do very much except make him feel better. He couldn't cure him and he got very sad when Grandaddy died."

"But..."

"Your daddy needed to go somewhere else, okay, baby? Somewhere Grandaddy had never been before, somewhere where Daddy would be able to help lots of people, okay?"

"But, why couldn't we go with him?"

Jocelyn closes her eyes at the innocent question, arms wrapping tight around her daughter. "'Cause Gran would miss you too much, baby-girl," she answers, false cheer burning bittersweet on the back of her tongue. Joanna thinks for a second before settling back on her pillows, eyes solemn. "Jo, your daddy likes to be a hero and he really hurts when he can't help someone, okay? In San Francisco, he's workin' real hard to save people, 'member? Like Jim when Cupcake hit him real hard – people like Jim need him to take care of them."

"I miss him, Mommy," Joanna mumbles, turning her face into her pillow. Jocelyn cards her fingers through Jo's long red-brown hair.

"I know, baby," she murmurs, feeling strange déjà vu as she leans down to kiss her daughter's cheek, "I know."

.:::.

Days pass slowly into weeks, weeks turn into months and on what would have been David Michael's ninth birthday, Jocelyn finally says 'yes' to Clay's request for a date. She drops Joanna off at Deborah's house, ignoring the miniature McCoy glare directed at her head from the back seat the entire trip. Staring at her closet, Jocelyn's saddened to realize that she has absolutely nothing worth wearing out on a date. Allowing herself a brief moment of panic, she sits on the bed with her face buried in his hands, heart breaking as she remembers the easy familiarity and attraction she'd had from the very beginning with Len – she'd never felt like she had to impress him. Steeling her resolve, she walks to the closet and pulls out one of her sundresses, in a sky-blue pattern of forget-me-nots, the one she'd bought shortly after the divorce but had never had a chance to wear. It's modest, but she'd loved the way it felt against her skin and, with a deep breath, she decides Clay can just deal with her as she is. Twisting her hair up and pinning it off her neck, she goes to the porch to wait for him.

It's surprisingly easy to be alone with him like this. Clay is attentive, opening doors and pulling out chairs like any Southern gentleman, his golden eyes warm where they linger on her face. Conversation flows effortlessly between them, his job and her studies, Joanna and the town in general providing them an endless well of topics to draw from. They stay comfortably settled across from each other at the little restaurant for hours, sipping coffee and talking quietly, enjoying the company. After one particularly long silence punctuated by an intense look shared between them, she sets down her coffee cup and wipes her mouth, shifting awkwardly in her seat as she tries to figure out why the butterflies are back in her stomach.

The drive back to her house is quiet and she can't help sneaking little glances at Clay's profile, at the tiny smile tilting his mouth and the way his eyes almost glow under the streetlights. A rising sense of expectancy shivers through her, different from the nerves she'd felt before the date, but just as potent. When he pulls to a stop in front of her house, she hesitates long enough for him to turn to her questioningly, one bronze eyebrow tilted in curiosity. Frowning at the expression she'd become so used to seeing on Leonard's face and never on Clay's, she reaches out a hand to trace his eyebrow and startles slightly when he wraps one warm hand around her wrist. As their eyes meet in the semi-dark of the 'car's interior, he brushes a kiss softly over the palm of her hand, fingertips lightly stroking the bones of her wrist.

"Clay," she whispers, heart in her throat. It's been so long since someone looked at her like this, though she never doubted Leonard loved her.

"Goodnight, Jo," he whispers back, releasing her arm and letting her flee to the safety of her cottage.

Her hand tingles for days afterward and she accepts immediately the next time he asks her out.

.:::.

Clay kisses her a month later, soft and sweet under starlit skies on her front porch. She's smiling as she pulls away, feeling like a teenager as her heart skips from the warmth of his skin under her hands. She traces a finger over the tip-tilt of his nose before bidding him goodnight and unlocking the door.

Joanna finally starts to thaw toward him, too, choosing to speak to him instead of ignoring him when he shows up at the house, watching him as he runs a brief diagnostic on Jocelyn's 'car one day, asking Jocelyn about him occasionally instead of pretending her mom isn't dating him. Jocelyn's not quite sure what it means, whether Jo's moving on and accepting or looking for more ammunition in whatever mock-battle she's decided she's in with her mother, but she's happy that Jo's at least a little more comfortable with Clay's presence around the house. Especially since Deborah seems to approve of him – a surprise to Jocelyn, since she was the one to ask Len for a divorce.

It finally seems like her life is settling back onto course and, aside from the occasional painful anniversary, she's content.

No, she's more than just content.

She's happy.

.:::.

"Do you still miss Leonard?" Clay asks out of the blue one night, when they're sitting on the tiny front porch wrapped in one of Deborah's afghans, watching the stars. Jocelyn glances at him out of the corner of her eye and, despite the question, his face is serene, golden eyes filled with moonlight instead of shadows.

"Sometimes," she answers truthfully, shrugging. The corner of the blanket slides off her shoulder and Clay wraps it back around her before she has the chance. "He was the first boy I fell in love with, my high school sweetheart and one of my closest friend in Georgia. I miss... the closeness we had in the beginning, the way he could be so sweet." She smiles softly, sadly, and turns to look meet his gaze. "But things happened—" _David Michael_, she thinks, _and Joanna and Len's father_, "—and we...forgot the way it had been. I didn't want to hurt him, but I don't think we could've found it again, so maybe it's better this way."

He nods and glances away. They sit in silence for a while, thin clouds scudding across the night sky and crickets chirping lazily around them. She wonders what made him ask about Leonard but lets the thought drift away without serious contemplation – it obviously doesn't bother him very much, so it shouldn't bother her. When he takes a deep breath and turns to face her again, she returns his gaze with muted curiosity.

"I know it's not been very long since the divorce-" _Almost a year_, she wants to tell him, but something catches the words in her throat. "But, when you're ready, I want you to be my wife," he tells her, quiet confidence in his voice as his golden eyes trace over her features. She feels breathless, head spinning, but there's no inclination to deny him. She even opens her mouth to tell him that but he places a finger over her mouth and kisses her cheek softly. "I don't want you to say anything tonight. Or tomorrow. I want you to have a chance to think and to heal. When you're ready," he reiterates, smiling, "I'll be here. Just say the word."

She nods and kisses him back.

.:::.

Three months later, in the middle of the day, watching Joanna and Clay play in the autumn leaves piled in the tiny yard, she walks over to him with a smile and a kiss, arms tight but not clinging around his neck.

"Okay."

.:::.

There's endless speculation in town, especially as the date for their wedding draws closer, but she refuses to let them affect her happiness. Instead, she focuses on colors and guest lists, drawing strength from Clay's warm embrace, Joanna's excitement, and Deborah's approving smile, and time flies by. Before she knows it, it's the middle of February and she's getting married the next day. She kisses Clay goodbye after lunch and drives to the school to pick Joanna up early and take her out to Deborah's.

"You nervous?" Deborah asks and Jocelyn shakes her head.

"No, it," she can't quite find the words to describe how she feels. "I loved Leonard," she promises and Deborah smiles, "but this feels stronger, somehow. Like... I-" She still can't find the right words.

"Leonard's first love was always medicine," Deborah says, motherly face soft with affection for both her grandson and Jocelyn. "He loved you and Joanna and he'd've adored that poor baby boy y'all lost, but he always wanted to be a doctor. He was always bringin' home baby birds and squirrels for his daddy and granddaddy to fix. Swear he'd've adopted every stray puppy he came across if it weren't for his daddy puttin' his foot down." They share a smile, both well aware of what a soft spot Leonard has for lost causes.

"We were important," Jocelyn agrees, "but I knew that if the hospital needed him, he'd be there as fast as possible, regardless of any plans we had at home. With Clay..."

"I know, honey." Deborah reaches out and takes a firm hold of Jocelyn's hand. "I know."

.:::.

And life goes on.

Joanna finishes third grade with exemplary grades and every teacher suggesting Jocelyn consider an advanced off-world summer program for the precocious little girl. Jocelyn, well remembering the Tarsus IV SNAFU a few years ago, decides against it, instead arranging for Joanna to attend a local summer camp with her other classmates. Thrilled with the opportunity, Joanna spends her time at home bounding around the house and describing, in detail, all of the things she'll do at camp, much to her mother and Clay's amusement.

Messages arrived monthly from San Francisco with updates from Leonard. They're always addressed to Joanna, though Deborah is frequently invited over to view them, resulting in a monthly family get-together, which allows Deborah and Jocelyn to catch up. Leonard still tells stories in his messages, about Jim's antics and Uhura's grace and Gaila's lively presence, descriptions of a daily life Jocelyn had never imagined for him and still can't quite fit to his personality. And if the stories are a little farfetched – well, Deborah just laughs and says Tom and David always had a propensity for telling tall tales, too.

Jocelyn finds herself laughing more often than she expected, spending lazy evenings with her head in Clay's lap as they watch TV, serving mock-tea parties in the backyard with her little girl, and whiling away hours over a glass or two of sweet tea in Deborah's tidy kitchen.

From all accounts, her life is pretty damn perfect.

When Joanna comes home from summer camp and launches into the next school year with gusto, Jocelyn finally feels herself relax completely, feels the vague worry about the future slip away and a new sort of contentment settle into her life. She has a routine, a plan, a wonderful, loving safety net and the future is bright.

She forgets how quickly things can turn around.

.:::.

Since word first reached the news-feeds, she's been glued to the receiver, stepping away only when Joanna needs her or when Clay drags her away for her own good, too focused on the spotty information slowly trickling in to be anything more than half-there. Clay takes a few days off work, just in case, and she's glad for his presence, glad he understands her unspoken need to have him safely in the house. Unsurprisingly, Jo keeps to herself, reading stories on a PADD or playing quietly in her room. The drama and impending chaos unfolding on the screen in the living room is of no interest to the nine-year-old and Jocelyn is unfathomably grateful for that.

She's in the kitchen cleaning up after breakfast the next morning when the household chime pings its alert for breaking news. Carelessly dropping a cereal bowl into the sink, she runs into the living room, not noticing Clay as he follows her as far as the kitchen doorway, and watches the images unraveling across the TV screen. Alien machinery shooting a column of flame into San Francisco harbor, barely missing the Golden Gate Bridge. Deep-space images of debris and a strange void the newsbeing declares was once the planet Vulcan. A security shot of thousands of red-suited people running in controlled chaos through a shuttle hangar at Starfleet Academy. And, finally, the crew of the _Enterprise_, the ship that saved them all, standing on the steps of Starfleet Headquarters.

Her jaw drops when she notices Len standing in the middle of the group, arm slung around the blond captain's shoulders. It's one thing to know he'd joined Starfleet but she hadn't ever believed he'd allow himself to be posted on a starship, not after his mama's death. She reaches out a hand and traces his face, fingertips barely touching the screen as her eyes fall shut against the memories, against the broken, bleak look deep in his hazel eyes the last time she'd seen him face-to-face.

"Mama?" she hears at her shoulder and opens her eyes, turning to pull Joanna into her lap, directing the little girl's eyes to the screen.

"Look, baby," she whispers against her daughter's ear, holding her tight in her arms, "your Daddy's a hero, didn't I tell you?"

.:::.

_Do you ever think about where we'd be if we hadn't lost David?_

She stares at the message for an hour, slowly working her way through a glass of wine, before finally clicking _send_ and climbing into bed next to Clay. She's not sure just what she's hoping for, doing this, but the thought keeps nagging at her, keeping her from sleeping at night. And, after the way Joanna lit up at the chance to talk to him yesterday, she can't help but try to picture it in her own mind.

_(His dad's old farmhouse, filled with their furniture and children and memories. Twelve-year-old David teasing and laughing with ten-year-old Joanna. Len home for dinner every night, helping David with his math and science homework and reading through Jocelyn's old book of fairytales with Joanna. Soccer games and dance lessons and yearly vacations. Len's arm wrapped around her waist every night and soft kisses traded every morning, before the kids woke up.)_

Days pass and she forces herself to forget about the message, about the what-ifs and might-have-beens. The _Enterprise_ leaves Spacedock over San Francisco to start its five-year mission and Joanna starts sixth grade, a precocious child ahead of her peers and blessed with her father's thirst for knowledge. Jocelyn decides not to go back to college, no longer feeling the old pull to finish her teacher's certifications, and applies for a job at the local library. The familiar, well-loved building looks the same as it did when she was a scared freshman trying to find her way around a new town.

Her comm chimes minutes before she leaves the library for the day and she absently flips it open to view the message. Tears fill her eyes and a soft smile touches her lips as she looks up from the device, staring without seeing past the old wooden shelves and the worn marble floors. In her mind's eye, a young redhead stands on tiptoe to reach for a novel-PADD while a dark haired boy peeks slyly out of the shelves across the aisle. Blinking away the memories, a single tear trails down her cheek as she tucks her comm back into her purse and turns to walk out the doors.

_Yeah, I do_, Len'd messaged back and those three small words tell her that they've finally found their balance again, that he's finally beginning to understand, and for that understanding, she's finally able to forgive him leaving.

Holding her head high, she steps out into the muggy heat of a late Georgian summer, the shadow of the library at her back.


End file.
